


Behind Masks; Before Bars

by BedeliaAnneRavenscroft



Category: Hannibal (TV), Hannibal Lecter Series - All Media Types, Hannibal Lecter Tetralogy - Thomas Harris
Genre: Angst, Bedelia assisting Clarice with the Buffalo Bill case, Buffalo Bill case, Cannibalism, Deception, F/F, F/M, Guilt, Hannibal (Book) references, Hannibal is not Bedelia's host in the stinger, Lies, M/M, Murder, Post Season 3, Post-Episode: s03e13 The Wrath of the Lamb, Recovery, Silence of the Lambs References, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-12-21
Updated: 2017-05-03
Packaged: 2018-09-10 23:16:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,064
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8943412
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BedeliaAnneRavenscroft/pseuds/BedeliaAnneRavenscroft
Summary: Two years have past since Hannibal and Will plunged from the cliff. Though no bodies were discovered and it is presumed both are still at large, Jack Crawford's attention has shifted from the escape of the Chesapeake Ripper and suspected abduction of a Special Investigator of the FBI to another case: catching the serial killer the media has nicknamed "Buffalo Bill". Special Agent Clarice Starling, under instructions from Crawford, approaches one of the few people known to have dined with Lecter and survived: Dr. Bedelia Du Maurier, who has told the FBI next to nothing of her most recent encounter with Lecter. Determined to discover the reasons behind Bedelia's reluctance in assisting in recapturing her alleged kidnapper and the man responsible for her injuries, Clarice becomes increasingly invested in the ongoing investigation centering around Lecter, despite Bedelia's warnings to cease in her pursuit.





	1. I

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to kmo (bedannibal-lectaurier on tumblr) for allowing me to use one of her headcanons in this fic

One voice holds the attention of the audience. All retain a respectful silence as the speaker, standing tall in the light of the projector, gestures to the picture cast onto the wall behind her.

Suddenly, the air of malaise in the room transmutes into something tangible; a young man rises from his seat, presses the back of his hand against his pallid lips, and heads quickly for the exit.

The image, cast onto a projection screen that covers most of the wall, shows a dimly lit room. Like a scene from a colourful nightmare, a visual symphony of autumnal colours -reds, browns, greens and golds- is interrupted by canary yellow photo evidence markers. The focus of all in the room, however, is drawn to the half-eaten meal on the dinner table.

“In order to survive my ordeal as the sacrificial lamb, I had to act as though I were under his influence...”

Every seat in the auditorium, save for one, is occupied. The speaker's eyes skim over the faces of the crowd, appearing indifferent to the pity and horror not one of them tries to hide. She takes a deep breath, presses her lips into a thin line; some see this and think she is suppressing tears, but the young FBI agent seated near the back row recognises the gesture as one of restrained annoyance.

The speaker paces from one side of the front row to the other, meeting the gaze of each person she passes.

“...but unlike my previous meeting with the beast, this time I was to participate fully. I was not Lydia Fell: I was myself...”

The audience remains entranced by her story, their eyes bright with interest, ruth -in some cases, falsified- etched onto their features. The speaker's face never changes from the impassive, professional affect she dons.

“Drugged and captive, missing a part of myself, I retained what I could by accepting my loss...”

While the FBI agent does not doubt the validity of parts of the speaker's story, there are certain details that seem glossed over and too predictable to be true. She meets the speaker's cold gaze for the briefest of seconds and glimpses beneath the other woman's mask, sees the cracks that lie beneath its varnished surface.

The minutes pass slowly for the speaker, each grain of sand in the hourglass of time falling individually. As her lecture draws to a close, she fights the urge to speed through the last portion so she can escape the memories of a night she despises so. But she knows there is no running, no hiding, from a decision she was neither coerced nor persuaded into making.

Now, at the end of her lecture, her voice rings out clear and sharp as she asks the audience of observers:

“Who among you believes themselves to be percipient to the Devil and his ways? Who here believes they are a participant? Should you come across him, bear in mind: he will consider you a participant, and as such you will participate – regardless of whether you wish to or not.”

A gentle applause passes through the room, beginning in the front and rippling toward the back rows. The FBI agent places her notepad in her lap and claps her hands with the others.

On the way out some stop to shake the speaker's hand, the less brave opting to simply nod their heads and file out the double doors of the auditorium. None, however, offer their condolences; they may open their mouths, but the gleam in her eyes, reminiscent of the reflection of light off the edge of a blade, tells them to murmur something -anything- else and walk away.

The FBI agent waits until all the other audience members have filed through the doors, rooting around inside her tawny leather satchel as though searching for an object both she and the speaker know is not there. The speaker watches her descend the steps in the warped reflection from a nickel-plated lamp, her back to the staircase. She collects her sparse notes from the podium, begins to load them into her briefcase.

“Doctor Bedelia Du Maurier?”

The speaker turns around. She says nothing, her azure eyes moving from the woman's short, dark hair to her cheap but well-polished shoes, skimming over the unremarkable suit. With a gesture to the notepad in the woman's hands, she says, “I don't do interviews with the press.”

A crease appears between the agent's eyebrows. She reaches into an inner pocket of her jacket and pulls out her identification badge.

“I'm Special Agent Clarice Starling. I work for the FBI. Jack Crawford requested I ask you some questions pertaining to your involvement with Hannibal Lecter.”

Du Maurier straightens, extends her hand. “May I see?” With a quick dip of her head, Starling hands the badge over. “Your ID expires soon, Agent Starling.”

“I'm a trainee, Dr Du Maurier.”

The corner of Du Maurier's lip twists in displeasure. “I have already told Mr Crawford everything I have to say, and provided him my word that should I recall anything else he will be the first to know.”

“Have you? Remembered anything else?”

“No.” She hands the badge back, sharp eyes locking with Starling's. “If I had, I would have contacted him.”

Starling tucks the badge back into her pocket, bites down on the tip of her tongue as she fights to not squirm beneath the older woman's cold gaze. Du Maurier arches an eyebrow as she awaits Starling's response.

“Mr Crawford was very insistent that I speak with you, Doctor, and as such I would appreciate it if you would find the time to answer my questions.”

Du Maurier's eyebrow lowers. Her face becomes unreadable, but Starling sees something bubbling beneath the ice in her eyes – curiosity, perhaps, though there seems to be traces of amusement there, too. She watches as the other woman reaches into a compartment in her briefcase (that looks as though it cost more than the car she borrowed from Quantico) and retrieves a business card which she hands to Starling. White text embossed on a plain black background reads _Dr. Bedelia Du Maurier_ , followed by a cell-phone number.

“I believe you have my home phone number and address in your records, however I request you create an appointment to come and see me. We can talk then.”

 


	2. II

There is a wall in Jack Crawford's office that had been dedicated solely to the Hannibal Lecter case. On it had been pictures of the man known to the press as the Chesapeake Ripper and numerous newspaper clippings detailing an array of his most infamous crimes, as well as photographic examples of his handiwork. But with the emergence of another killer, one closer to home and much more active than his predecessor currently is, the Lecter memorabilia has long since been replaced with material on this new case.

Starling sits opposite Crawford, the desk between them piled high with paperwork. A thick case file rests atop a small mountain of papers; it is the one thing that draws Starling's eyes from the wall, where gruesome autopsy photos of Buffalo Bill's five known victims are tacked over a large map showing where their partially flayed corpses were found.

“When is your appointment with Dr. Du Maurier?”

“Four o'clock today. Can I ask why you were so insistent I speak with her?”

“I thought you had an interest in this case, Starling.”

“I do, sir.”

A pause. “I want to know if she's remembered anything else about her time with Lecter.”

Eyeing the file, filled with the sparse notes from numerous other agents, Starling asks, “Do you suspect she may be withholding information?”

“I have no evidence to say either way, but she has lied to us in the past. I don't doubt she will lie to you.” He taps the end of his pen against the desk, watching her face but avoiding her eyes. She notices his own are bloodshot, sunken in, likely the result of many sleepless nights. “You're familiar with Lecter's mind games?”

“As much as I can be through reading over the file.”

“Well, keep whatever you've learnt in mind while talking to Dr. Du Maurier.”

“Do you believe she's dangerous?”

His eyes lower to the pen, still tapping rhythmically against the desk. He stills his hand, sets the pen down. “I apply to her the same caution I applied to Lecter. Not because I believe she is like him, but because I believe she has the capability to become like him. You wouldn't underestimate him, Starling. So don't underestimate her.”

Starling fights the urge to shift in her seat. She wants to ask again why he requested her and not someone more qualified. Perhaps it is because he doubts Du Maurier will talk to anyone, so there would be no point in sending someone who could, given the chance, use their time for more important things, her education at Quantico be damned.

Regardless of Crawford's intentions, she is curious - has been ever since she read the story on _TattleCrime_ , though she wonders how accurate the version told by Freddie Lounds' is. Pieces of the story never quite seemed to make sense, never seemed to fit with each other, as though stitched together with half-truths and outright lies.

"Be careful around her, Agent Starling."

Her eyes widen slightly. "I will. Thank you, sir."

He nods quickly, looks down at his watch. "It's nearing your appointment time. Best to not keep her waiting."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a short chapter before Clarice and Bedelia's next meeting. Sorry that updates are irregular!


	3. III

Starling drives slower than she should, listening to the monotonous voice playing from her phone's speakers as the GPS app tells her the route to take. Gravel crunches beneath the car's tires, clinking against the underside of the car. The sound helps clear Starling's thoughts as the house appears in the gaps between the branches of the oaks and pines lining the sides of the driveway leading up to the Doctor's house.

Though it is only a storey high, Starling would not consider the property a bungalow; the word seems too mundane, not grand enough to describe the home that Du Maurier purchased after her last encounter with Lecter. Its contemporary design, fairly similar to her previous residence, makes use of numerous window walls that would give the occupant a view to the outside, but Du Maurier has hung thick velvet curtains to obscure the interior of the residence from any prying eyes that may look in – understandable, given how many times the police have been called out to escort a member of the press off the property.

Starling drives to the back of the house to the attached garage, pauses when she finds a vehicle already parked outside. She lets the engine idle as she checks her watch to ensure she is on time – she is – and wonders whether Du Maurier has forgotten their appointment time.

Gingerly, careful not to scrape against the SUV, a maroon Jeep Liberty, she pulls in to the driveway and parks, leaving a large enough gap that the other driver should be able to open their door without damaging the paintwork on the older model Ford Focus she borrowed from Quantico.

She waits a moment in the driver's seat, unsure of whether or not to walk around the front of the property and knock or wait until the other visitor leaves. Nerves rising, she checks her watch again – a few minutes have passed. Had she hurried to the front door rather than lingering in the car, she would have been on time.

The corner of her lip twists as she unbuckles her belt and opens the door, determination breaking through the wall of uncertainty built in her mind, and makes her way to the front of the house, where a vaguely familiar figure stands in the open doorway, conversing easily with Du Maurier. Starling stops abruptly, eyeing the Doctor's guest.

Freddie Lounds turns to Starling. Her eyes widen fractionally as she takes in the sight of the young agent. A tense second passes before she smiles, amusedly, and turns back to Du Maurier; it is as though a well-guarded, private joke passes between the two as they say their goodbyes.

Starling waits for her to round the corner before turning back to Du Maurier.

“I apologize that you had to wait.” Du Maurier steps back, holds the door open with one hand. “Come inside, Agent Starling."

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to everyone who reads / comments on this - feedback is always appreciated!


End file.
